


green

by Drbwho



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-10 22:47:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5603764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drbwho/pseuds/Drbwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The child is grown.<br/>The dream is gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. pine

**Author's Note:**

> ...this is a response to being told a Fargo AU would be "bizarre." 
> 
>  
> 
> relax, i'll need some information first  
> just the basic facts:  
> can you show me where it hurts?

It had taken longer than she thought it would to find a hospital she was certain he wouldn’t check. An hour long drive, a steep taxi fare in the blizzard like conditions that caused the roads to appear almost indiscernible from the snow-covered grass of either side of asphalt, and finally they had reached a small town that boasted an even smaller urgent care facility. By then the swelling had worsened, despite the cold outside, and her nose and eyes were aching awfully. The bruises would be there, but she refused to look for them, avoiding any reflection on windows or the handful of metallic utensils in the triage room.

The nurse had given her a pitiful, downward stare from above as Sansa sat, a blood pressure cuff fastened to her upper arm. And the girl couldn’t blame her; she pitied _herself_ in that moment, a young thing alone, the marks on her face indicative of abuse despite her halfhearted lie about slipping on the ice near her home. She was sure any healthcare worker would have been trained on what to look for, the tell-tail signs of an angry significant other’s fist or teeth or nails. Already she caught the nurse’s gaze flick to the purplish mark on the arm on which the sphygmomanometer was placed, the reminder of it heightened when the cuff inflated fully. Already she knew there would be a social worker called, a number given if she needed help. This was nothing new.

Deemed non-acute as far as patients went, she was told to sit in the waiting room, an ice pack gingerly placed on the worst of the injury, masking her face to the few others seated around her. The automatic doors slid open every now and then, letting in a gust of wind that kept her arms constantly covered in gooseflesh. A mantra rang over and over in her head: _This is the last time, this is the last time, this is the last time._

And how many times had she told herself that?

Suddenly, a sound; her ears picking up on the voice, male, familiar, as her eyes saw the scantly-clad woman walking toward the receptionist. Striding beside her was a man with a coat, long and dark, and even blocked by the womanly figure between them she could tell just who it was. The flash of grey at the temples, his gait out of place amongst the poor, small town folk in the unit.

It was clear he was simply dropping off the woman, one who Sansa now saw looked very much like a prostitute, and she wondered if her boyfriend knew just what sort of activities his trusted lawyer was getting mixed up in. If she wasn’t terrified of being seen, if she wasn’t sore and sad and pathetic, she might have smiled, she might have laughed.

Whatever thoughts were meant to come next were halted before they began, when his eyes met hers. The greenish-grey widened just a fraction, surprise that was quickly masked with a raise of an eyebrow as he made his way not to the exit, but toward her instead.

She could run, or scream, alert the doctors and nurses that she did not want him there, but something stopped her. Perhaps it was the way he was looking at her then, not with pity, but something else. Recognition, perhaps; _I know what you’re going through_ , his eyes seemed to tell her, and something harder, something like anger, was there as well. These were not the things she normally found in the stares of Joffrey’s assortment of clients and employees.

He took a seat next to her, sliding his hands along his coat and slacks to prevent wrinkles, not turning to look at her. “What happened?” His voice was rough from the cold, but did not carry above the baseline chatter in the room. 

“I fell.” It was such an automatic reply that she’d nearly interrupted the question with the answer. “Slipped on ice. I can be so clumsy, you know.”

The man sighed into the space in front of him. “You’re a bad liar, Sansa.” His jaw tightened as he stared ahead, as if deciding what to say next with utmost caution. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to give you up.”

The woman he'd walked in with was nowhere in sight now, whisked away to be cared for. “I saw that. You keep interesting company, Mr Baelish.”

A puff of a laugh, and he dismissed her soft blow. He turned to her then, finally, one hand clasping her wrist gently to lower the pack of ice, exposing her battered face to him. “As do you, little one.”

She did not have a response to that, not at first, with his hand still lose on her wrist, burning her with his cool hands. But the silence was almost as painful as her injury, and he was still staring, his eyes not leaving her face, boring into her skin as if he was committing the bruises to memory. “He gets angry.”

The man nodded, slowly, removing his hand. “Everyone gets angry. Not everyone does… _this_.” In her periphery she saw his fingers twitch, and was he itching to touch the marks? It was a strange thought; his eyes were hard, a contrast to those digits. Stranger still, she might have let him.

She found herself shaking her head. “He’s just a bully.”

And silence again, for half a minute at least, and he seemed to be mulling her words over. When he spoke next it was quiet, slow, as if testing her. “I can take care of it, if that’s what you want.”

She paused, the air in her lungs staying there, refusing to escape through parted lips. “What do you mean?”

If it was a joke, he was a poor trickster; his face was nothing but solemn. “I can take care of it, of him. Just say the word. Yes or no?”

“You can’t just-“ and then the nurse was calling her name from behind them, interrupting her reply. “What would you do?”

Again the hospital staff called her name, louder and more imposing this time. Sansa stood, her gaze moving quickly back and forth between the two competing sounds, unsure of who to answer.

He was calm, still sitting, watching. “ _Yes or no, Sansa?”_

Again her name was heard from behind, and an arm was on her, pulling her away, telling her that the hospital was _very busy_ and she _shouldn’t waste their time_. It was all background noise to her; all she could see was him, waiting for the answer she failed to provide. 


	2. sage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come on, now  
> i hear you're feeling down  
> well, i can ease your pain  
> and get you on your feet again

The diner was busy, businesspeople and families alike settled in for the lunch rush as her shoes clicked along the tiled floor. She hoped no one noticed the swelling on her face; ice and a heavy amount of foundation usually did the trick, but this hit had been a particularly hard one. No eyes seemed to linger on her as she scanned the bustling place, searching for the man she’d met in an emergency waiting room days before. It only took a few seconds for her to spot him, the greying temples betraying his location before she had to ask where he was, and her trembling legs carried her there before she could convince herself to let it go. She had to know _why_ , she had to speak to him again.

He was picking at his meal when she approached, and he did not look to her as she loomed over him, or even when she took the booth across from him. She cleared her throat and shrugged her coat off as a signal she was staying put, her arms crossing in expectation. It was only then that he looked up from his meal, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips before he took a small swig of his water.

“Did you do it?” She knew the answer, _she knew_ , but she could not muster the discourtesy of accusing him outright. Her hands came down to straighten her skirt as she adjusted to sitting, the picture of the housewife she was being groomed to become. “Did you kill Joffrey?”

The man seemed disinterested, a bored eyebrow raising. “Joffrey is dead? What a pity.” His fork twirled into the mashed potatoes, but he did not bring the food to his mouth.

He was playing a game with her, she could see that clearly enough, and her chest tightened. One heel slammed down in a stomp; the man behind the counter looked over to the pair, but quickly dismissed the sound. Sansa, however, glowered at the cavalier way he spoke about murder. “Don’t toy with me. A boy is dead.”

His face softened at her ire, his knife and fork placed on either side of the plate delicately. “A terrible boy. You know more than the rest how cruel he could be, don’t you?” And with that he leaned, an arm crossing the distance between them, his thumb brushing the thick coating of powder covering a purpling bruise. She winced at his touch, at the reminder of an angry fist meeting her nose, and yes, he had been terrible, hadn’t he?

She turned her head and his hand fell slowly back to the table; did he think she was weak for the marks she carried, for the things she’d let others do to her? Sansa did not know exactly why she cared what he thought, but she found herself not wanting to disappoint him all the same.

He paused for a second, simply meeting her stare, before he started. “Your whole life, your entire, pathetic string of endless days, has been spent thinking some shining knight will come and save you.” He reached for her hand, then, another attempt at contact, and the poor, _pathetic_ girl let him. Her palm turned upward to face the ceiling to meet his single index finger. The digit skimmed the sensitive skin, the lines that lived there, and she relaxed into the touch. “But we know the truth, don’t we?”

Her mouth felt dry, suddenly, full of the sand on the beaches she saw pictures of in magazines.“The truth?”

He nodded. “Most of the time, you have to save yourself. You have to be the one to remind the world you’re something. That you exist, that you’re important.”

The muscles in her jaw clenched for a moment before she spoke, the earnest way she thought of good versus bad reflected in her tone. “It’s against the law.”

“Who said anything about the law?” He chuckled softly, and any passerby might have thought the smile he gave her was one of affection. Perhaps it _was_ affection. Why else would he have taken a life? “There is no law, not for people like us.”

“Like us?” The girl tried her hardest not to sound confused, not to let his words overrule what she perceived to be right over wrong. “But I didn’t do anything.”

He shook his head, a slow, fluid manoeuvre. “But you did. You killed him.”

Her whisper was forceful; she did not want anyone to hear. _“I didn’t!_ I didn’t say yes.”

His eyes took on a mischievous glean as he watched her anger build. He looked to be having fun teasing her. “You didn’t say no.”

Lungs filled and emptied as she attempted to keep calm. Still, she did not jerk her hand away. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

“Doesn’t it?” His entire hand was on hers now, index and middle gliding against the inside of her wrist as his palm covered her own. He sighed, and was he enjoying the feel of her skin, the connection? Was _she_ enjoying it? “Are you sad? Do you feel upset about his death?”

“No.” It spilled from her mouth before she had a chance to come up with a convincing lie, to cover the truth with something more polite. 

He leaned closer, the plate of food swept carelessly aside as he did so, his voice low and honeyed. “Tell me; what are you feeling?”

And oh, she wished he wasn’t touching her; it would have been easier to lie, to tell him he was evil, a murderer, and that she wanted nothing more than to go back to a normal life. She knew now that it wasn’t the truth, and the word she said reflected that candour. “Relieved.”

The smile that found his face was a satisfied one. “Ah, there now. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He pulled from her then, his hand leaving hers, and he looked almost pained to do so. The enigmatic man rose, looking down to the girl who he had killed for, and the smirk fell. “I’ll be seeing you soon, my girl. Enjoy your freedom.”


	3. emerald

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your lips move but i can't hear what you're saying  
> when i was a child i had a fever  
> my hands felt just like two balloons  
> now i've got that feeling once again  
> i can't explain, you would not understand  
> this is not how i am

Her aunt was dead, and to her dismay, no one had bothered to clean up the blood.

She’d returned to the house after hours at the local station, her eyes wet and brimming with tears from telling a tale that was almost completely fabricated, only to find the pool of crimson congealing on the living room floor. Sansa guessed the same would be true for the basement, where her aunt had been found beaten to death by a hammer, and how surprised the girl had been over the quantity of blood in a person. There were drops even now on the collar of her blouse, on the sleeve covering her wrist. It seemed to her that the amount that poured from Lysa Arryn was more than she had to begin with, but then again, Sansa was no doctor. She was nothing but a frightened girl. 

Her hands came up to her face then, exhausted, confused. Why had she called him, why had she asked for his help? She thought back to the diner, to that knowing smile he’d given her when they parted, and it was almost as if he knew she was going to do something foolish, reckless. And she had; her fingers twitched in memory, the feel of the handle of her gruesome weapon a ghost in her palm. The sound of her aunt’s last quick breath before she realised just what her constant insults, her berating, had driven Sansa to.

Now there was no one. Joffrey was dead, her horrible aunt was murdered by her own hand, and Petyr had mercilessly shot the policeman who had come to investigate the frantic 911 call she had made in the panicked aftermath. He’d bought her time, time enough to clean the evidence from her face, to move into the role of a victim rather than the culprit, to feign a botched robbery in place of a frenzied thread snapping in her mind.

A sensation crept in, lasting for long minutes as she stared at the mess, a gnawing feeling of the presence of another, of being watched. Feet took her to the window after a time, and of course he was there, standing outside, his long, black coat and heavy boots guarding him from the chill of snow.

She didn’t want him inside; for some reason she thought bringing him in to see the mess would mean letting him win, and so she slipped on her own shoes and tentatively took a set of steps nearer to him, brows furrowed, her arms trembling in the cold. She’d forgotten her coat, and the flakes of white ice littered down on her cheeks, her clothes, the chill fast creeping into her bones. 

“What did you do?” Blaming him seemed to be the most logical move; he’d started it, he’d dealt the first blow. But it wasn’t entirely true, was it? Something had been brewing inside of her for so long now, perhaps she only needed a tiny push, and…

Quieter, she spoke again, closer now to him than before. “What did I do?”

“What you needed to do, my sweet girl.” He closed the distance this time, reaching to graze her arm, his breath visible between them, his words a fog in the air. “Did you think it would be _oh so easy_ , Sansa?” He took a step closer, the sound of his fine boots crunching into the snow seemed so far away compared to the noise her breath made as her respirations increased in frequency. “That you could just go back to your life, to a _normal_ life, once you'd had a taste?” His index finger found her cheek, a single brush to where she was surely pink from warmth. “You know what power feels like, tastes like. You won’t forget.”

She said nothing, her face warming from his touch, a welcome thing in the cold, even as her stomach turned, unsettled and yet…

“And you’ll want more. More than what your tiny little world can give you.” He sounded as if he spoke from experience, and surely he had once taken that same route.

She was helpless and strong at once, the salt dried on her cheeks as he cupped the side of her face, keeping her eyes on him. The girl had found her way around being accused of her crime, she was free from her chains, but now, now she was alone. “What do I do now?”

Wisps of breath fell softly against her lips. He was close, and for a moment she thought he might kiss her. Instead, he answered. “Whatever you wish. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” The man smirked, so unlike the apathetic way he had stared at the dead cop, the body of a man who had been nice, noble, who had a family. He seemed to have a light in his eyes she had not seen before, but there was almost something cruel about it. “You could come with me. We could play this game together.”

It was tempting, the tranquil way he spoke of more, the thought of seeing better things. She often felt so stuck in her snowy home, stranded amongst cold and isolation, itching for something exciting to come into her view. And it had, she saw now. In the worst sort of way her wish had been granted; her existence turned upside down by a single man, by a yes or no question unanswered.

The man was clever, and he might keep her safe for a time, but what if he grew bored? And more, she barely knew him, save for what she knew he was capable of. He was capable of the worst sort of things, did she want to tether herself to someone like that? 

Sansa pulled back, her heels meeting the soft blanket of powder several times as she backed away. This time she had the word to give him in response. “No.”

He did not move from his spot until she was back inside. And then he was gone, gone from the town, gone from her life.


End file.
